There is nothing more satisfying to a Mom at home all the time
then feeling needed by a grateful family.
I now recommend, if you feel your husband is getting soft
and your children are beginning to leave their shoes on the table
and living like they have skipped straight to some university frat house,
go away for a few weeks.
Just pack up and trust that husband will be able to find emergency
childcare and rustle up food from the freezer... or from every restaurant in town.
Go away for a few weeks.
Mine seemed to be just fine when I arrived home. Clean clothes and house, no one
was starving or particularly dirty. Nails were trimmed - but I knew they must be
longing for their mother on the inside. I figured they didn't want to hurt their father's
feelings that he was not quite good enough.
A few days went by and they still seemed unable to admit that
things were much better when I was around.
To soften them all up, (maybe a touch of domestic wiles)
I began baking blueberry pies.
It was after a few bites that son and even husband declared with a smile,
"We are very glad that Mom is back, aren't we?"
Victory!
P.S. On a more serious note, as I dressed my wound this morning Alice considered it carefully
and declared it to look like a giraffe. I would describe it more simply: a hole. A hole where there should not be one unless one has just been caught in the path of a bullet.
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
6.13.2007
6.11.2007
Clean Cut
The tears kept tumbling down, wetting my hair and the paper cover on the pillow under my head. I felt stupid, silly, weak lying there in my doctor's small office "procedure" room. A small operating table covered in pine green vinyl and that useless white paper that turns to shreds the minute you shift around at all, fluorescent lights slightly flickering, the searing pain right below my left collarbone. The pain that came with me on the long plane ride Friday night, that distracted every attempt on Saturday to enjoy the reunion with my family. The pain that by Sunday was all I could see, hear, feel, touch - overwhelming any other sensation, dragging down my mind.
And so, Monday morning, I have the phone in my hand 5 minutes before office hours begin. My 3 year old daughter, who has only been able to cry or talk about how much she missed me in the two days since my return, reacts like she has been slapped when I tell her she is going to have to spend the morning with her aunt and cousin. "But Momma I already miss-ED you so much, I want to come to the doctors with you!" She is nearly inconsolable and I have to promise to spend every moment after her nap with her later on in the day.
The nurse barely glances at my sad, infected skin. Perhaps I was fighting off infection all along and the stress, heat, heavy bags of last week finally exacted their price. She clucks sympathetically, hands me a gown, instructs me to lie down on the table, and leaves me alone with my thoughts and the unflattering lighting. In the 20 minutes I wait, I fight back tears over the pain, not wanting shots, not wanting to be cut open on a Monday morning, and possibly tears over all of last week.
My doctor is a very gentle man. He has a kind voice and kind eyes and can see my misery - in my eyes and as he assesses my abscess. He asks if I've had a fever. I tell him that I haven't noticed. It is 100.3 and he starts shaking his head slowly. "You have been walking around like this for three days, oh, tsk tsk- Jessica!" It is a complete mix of scolding and sympathy. In that moment I realize that he only means my obvious problem; I feel the correction too deeply for it to be simply about my physical condition. Not for long. He draws out the needle and as he numbs my pain, and it vanishes into my memory I start crying in earnest. The relief of the pain is part of it, but the relief of crying all the contained stress and worry and exhaustion. He looks startled, "It isn't hurting, is it?" "No," I say. "It's been a really long week. Please, just fix it."
And then, a clean cut, some pressure, and careful bandaging later I am free.
I thank him on the way out - of course he nods automatically - but I have never felt more
healed.
And so, Monday morning, I have the phone in my hand 5 minutes before office hours begin. My 3 year old daughter, who has only been able to cry or talk about how much she missed me in the two days since my return, reacts like she has been slapped when I tell her she is going to have to spend the morning with her aunt and cousin. "But Momma I already miss-ED you so much, I want to come to the doctors with you!" She is nearly inconsolable and I have to promise to spend every moment after her nap with her later on in the day.
The nurse barely glances at my sad, infected skin. Perhaps I was fighting off infection all along and the stress, heat, heavy bags of last week finally exacted their price. She clucks sympathetically, hands me a gown, instructs me to lie down on the table, and leaves me alone with my thoughts and the unflattering lighting. In the 20 minutes I wait, I fight back tears over the pain, not wanting shots, not wanting to be cut open on a Monday morning, and possibly tears over all of last week.
My doctor is a very gentle man. He has a kind voice and kind eyes and can see my misery - in my eyes and as he assesses my abscess. He asks if I've had a fever. I tell him that I haven't noticed. It is 100.3 and he starts shaking his head slowly. "You have been walking around like this for three days, oh, tsk tsk- Jessica!" It is a complete mix of scolding and sympathy. In that moment I realize that he only means my obvious problem; I feel the correction too deeply for it to be simply about my physical condition. Not for long. He draws out the needle and as he numbs my pain, and it vanishes into my memory I start crying in earnest. The relief of the pain is part of it, but the relief of crying all the contained stress and worry and exhaustion. He looks startled, "It isn't hurting, is it?" "No," I say. "It's been a really long week. Please, just fix it."
And then, a clean cut, some pressure, and careful bandaging later I am free.
I thank him on the way out - of course he nods automatically - but I have never felt more
healed.
6.09.2007
Where in the world?
More detailed posts about my travels to follow,
but since I have been silent so long, I figured I'd update.
I let my husband and kids for the last nearly two weeks
to be with my sister and husband in Philadelphia.
My flights were timed very nicely, I made it for the birth -
and subsequent trials of the first week.
Now, however, it's his life story - and his blog to read:
The Life, so far, of Sullivan
Coming soon: Transportation Possessed
but since I have been silent so long, I figured I'd update.
I let my husband and kids for the last nearly two weeks
to be with my sister and husband in Philadelphia.
My flights were timed very nicely, I made it for the birth -
and subsequent trials of the first week.
Now, however, it's his life story - and his blog to read:
The Life, so far, of Sullivan
Coming soon: Transportation Possessed
5.23.2007
5.16.2007
Nine Years
Anniversaries are always a chance for some nostalgia, some sentiment, some reflection on what we've been through and how far we've grown together.
Perhaps the greatest advantage (and disadvantage) of marrying young and not really knowing anything is that you don't really know, well, anything. You don't have a great sense of the scale of time passing and how the most mundane life circumstances will shake out all the deepest parts of your depravity - all over each other.
I suppose, at first, I thought it would be the tragedies and suffering that would bring out the worst. (OK, there was that screaming I did when my grandmother died and we were lost in the dark on Long Island.) And so, I was surprised to discover, as I reflected this morning, that our marriage has struggled most in the times devoid of some trial. So, lucky for us, our nine years of marriage have been fraught with suffering. And that has made all the difference.
I made a list of all the trials and sufferings we've been through - and it is too long and too depressing. I lost count at 8 - when I was attempting to recall the people we loved who have died since our wedding. Friends suffering, babies sick, pregnancy impossibilities, marriages falling apart. It has not been possible to forget for more than a few days that we are sustained by the grace of God alone.
Why my husband is better than before:
1. All I have to do is agree on a family bike ride and he is elated.
2. He accepts that I don't like making him lunches either.
3. He finds the new good stuff (movies, TV shows, music) and his taste is only getting better. (Who made me the judge? I don't know - this is where love is blind)
4. If I have all the ingredients for dinner - he actually enjoys coming home and putting it together.
5. He is very funny.
6. He knows when I am hungry, tired, or justifiably angry - and can talk me back from the ledge.
7. Encourages me to take time to myself - shooing me out the door some evenings (kids still awake! Kitchen messy!)
8. The kids can't go to bed without him and the little detailed rituals he takes them through. The song, the handshake, the secret shapes.
9. He loves chess but doesn't make me play or get annoyed that I refuse to play.
10. Maybe this goes with #3 - but he is constantly pushing me to expand my tastes. Listening to new things, watching new things, going to new places, making new friends, reading new things.
11. He lets me have the NY Times magazine and Sunday Styles both to myself on Sundays.
(He claims to prefer the Book Review... but how could he possibly over Modern Love?! Impossible!)
Perhaps the greatest advantage (and disadvantage) of marrying young and not really knowing anything is that you don't really know, well, anything. You don't have a great sense of the scale of time passing and how the most mundane life circumstances will shake out all the deepest parts of your depravity - all over each other.
I suppose, at first, I thought it would be the tragedies and suffering that would bring out the worst. (OK, there was that screaming I did when my grandmother died and we were lost in the dark on Long Island.) And so, I was surprised to discover, as I reflected this morning, that our marriage has struggled most in the times devoid of some trial. So, lucky for us, our nine years of marriage have been fraught with suffering. And that has made all the difference.
I made a list of all the trials and sufferings we've been through - and it is too long and too depressing. I lost count at 8 - when I was attempting to recall the people we loved who have died since our wedding. Friends suffering, babies sick, pregnancy impossibilities, marriages falling apart. It has not been possible to forget for more than a few days that we are sustained by the grace of God alone.
Why my husband is better than before:
1. All I have to do is agree on a family bike ride and he is elated.
2. He accepts that I don't like making him lunches either.
3. He finds the new good stuff (movies, TV shows, music) and his taste is only getting better. (Who made me the judge? I don't know - this is where love is blind)
4. If I have all the ingredients for dinner - he actually enjoys coming home and putting it together.
5. He is very funny.
6. He knows when I am hungry, tired, or justifiably angry - and can talk me back from the ledge.
7. Encourages me to take time to myself - shooing me out the door some evenings (kids still awake! Kitchen messy!)
8. The kids can't go to bed without him and the little detailed rituals he takes them through. The song, the handshake, the secret shapes.
9. He loves chess but doesn't make me play or get annoyed that I refuse to play.
10. Maybe this goes with #3 - but he is constantly pushing me to expand my tastes. Listening to new things, watching new things, going to new places, making new friends, reading new things.
11. He lets me have the NY Times magazine and Sunday Styles both to myself on Sundays.
(He claims to prefer the Book Review... but how could he possibly over Modern Love?! Impossible!)
5.10.2007
7 on the 7th, 2007
We went to a funny place called Fo-Fo Figgily's on the day of G's birthday. It was his dream place - soft things to climb up, guns for shooting soft balls around, big twisty slides that are long and dark and fast.
It was cool, and he was happy. (No small feat considering his birthday was on a Monday and he had school and a violin lesson - torture!)
One thing a short seven years of parenting my son has taught me - what I say can't change him. I love and listen and validate and discipline over a long haul - and he will do one thing consistenly: challenge my love and acceptance of him.
As DH says: "It's a marathon, Jess, not a sprint."
I am never nostalgic for G's birth, or his days as an infant. I thought that was normal until I had my second. With G I am always content to see him growing and healthy - never longing for baby days of 3 pounds, agony over ounces and what the future would hold.
As he said, "It's more special today Mom, it's my golden birthday!"
4.28.2007
Relief
I was much more nervous than G. He was calm, sitting through nearly an hour of older kids playing. When it was his turn he took the stage, exchanged smiles with his accompanying guitar player, and played away. His songs were the simplest ones we heard, he was probably the youngest kid there, he certainly has been playing the least amount of time, (he didn't even know any songs at Christmas!) but it was beautiful. He knew he played his songs well, and that was what he'd worked for - doing the best he was capable of. I think he actually thought it was fun.
4.27.2007
Conquering the Chart
Yesterday, after two weeks of daily hour-long practice sessions, we crossed off the last box on The Chart.
378 songs over two weeks. (Well, 3 songs 378 times)
The fiddle competition is Saturday morning, we are all ready.
I can only hope that G will come out of all this with at least a smidge
of satisfaction and motivation after all the work he's put into it.
I'll be sure to add pictures and an update on Saturday.
378 songs over two weeks. (Well, 3 songs 378 times)
The fiddle competition is Saturday morning, we are all ready.
I can only hope that G will come out of all this with at least a smidge
of satisfaction and motivation after all the work he's put into it.
I'll be sure to add pictures and an update on Saturday.
4.20.2007
dressing up is dead, here
I think it is Disney that killed dressing up.
As I can recall, dressing up once involved putting on old clothing. Scarves or anything with a flowing texture, old high-heeled shoes with leather so worn the shoes creased flat, bridesmaid dresses that had turned slightly yellow with stiff lace. Dressing up was completed by one very important element: the leap a girl's imagination had to make in order to turn a pile of dusty old clothes into a princess. Maybe this is the root of my self-esteem issues! Always imagining a princess but seeing crusty lace. How could I ever truly believe I was a princess with reality staring back from the full-length mirror in the hall? A Miss Havisham more like!
If the trade-off is having a daughter act like mine does these days - I will have the crusty lace back thank you. Gone are the days of needing a leap of imagination. These days, you want princess - you get princess. No mind-bending required. You can be any Disney princess - simply a step in and three velcro strips away from an exact replica of Sleeping Beauty. She doesn't have to dream of being a princess, she is one. And seriously, she puts that thing on and I realize that Disney's lame attempts to talk about how princesses are about kindness (blah blah) are completely lost on our little royal. She has the "Why am I subject to the poor service of such incompetent help?" mentality. Once the garb is donned, the only things she says are some variation of the following (you will have to imagine the shrill shrieking tone)
"Where is my crown?"
"Fix my pretty shoes!"
"My crown is falling off, not on right, pulling my hair, etc. Come fix it right this second!"
It is Anastasia and Drizella, not Cinderella - that passive, kind to animals, slave.
I think if you aren't wearing Sleeping Beauty's dress you don't really expect the scarves to fit the way you expect your pink jeweled tiara to fit.
As I can recall, dressing up once involved putting on old clothing. Scarves or anything with a flowing texture, old high-heeled shoes with leather so worn the shoes creased flat, bridesmaid dresses that had turned slightly yellow with stiff lace. Dressing up was completed by one very important element: the leap a girl's imagination had to make in order to turn a pile of dusty old clothes into a princess. Maybe this is the root of my self-esteem issues! Always imagining a princess but seeing crusty lace. How could I ever truly believe I was a princess with reality staring back from the full-length mirror in the hall? A Miss Havisham more like!
If the trade-off is having a daughter act like mine does these days - I will have the crusty lace back thank you. Gone are the days of needing a leap of imagination. These days, you want princess - you get princess. No mind-bending required. You can be any Disney princess - simply a step in and three velcro strips away from an exact replica of Sleeping Beauty. She doesn't have to dream of being a princess, she is one. And seriously, she puts that thing on and I realize that Disney's lame attempts to talk about how princesses are about kindness (blah blah) are completely lost on our little royal. She has the "Why am I subject to the poor service of such incompetent help?" mentality. Once the garb is donned, the only things she says are some variation of the following (you will have to imagine the shrill shrieking tone)
"Where is my crown?"
"Fix my pretty shoes!"
"My crown is falling off, not on right, pulling my hair, etc. Come fix it right this second!"
It is Anastasia and Drizella, not Cinderella - that passive, kind to animals, slave.
I think if you aren't wearing Sleeping Beauty's dress you don't really expect the scarves to fit the way you expect your pink jeweled tiara to fit.
4.17.2007
fiddle sticks!
G is participating in a fiddle competition next Saturday afternoon.
I will spare you all and not delve into the battle that this preparation has been against all his underachieving therefore perfectionist tendencies. If I could not be grateful for the incredible blessing of sanctification this is for him - he would certainly be quitting the violin! Or I would be quitting my senses, my very sanity.
One aspect of preparation is The Chart. The Chart requires that he play all three of his pieces (the required hoedown, waltz, free piece) 9 times each day and mark the appropriate boxes. So, even on Saturday when The Chart was new to us - by about repetition #4 there were tears, doom and gloom, and (sorry to say) some very stern frustrated lecturing involved. (read: yelling, empty threatening. I didn't say the sanctification has been limited to him!) I am pleased to say that our meetings with The Chart have gone relatively smoothly since the first go-round. Granted we are more in the, do what we have to to survive and get through it without having to go right to bed mode. Tonight's session involved the last five repetitions of the hoedown morphed into an all-out jam session with Dad on guitar, Mom on mandolin, G on violin playing straight through five times.
When we finally made it through all the songs, I leaned toward G (having on my mind to drive him right out for ice cream for making it through Day 4 with The Chart) and said, "Maybe we should go for treat." His response, "I don't have much of a sweet tooth Mom, but I have sweet eyes. Can I stay up and watch American Idol?"
I will spare you all and not delve into the battle that this preparation has been against all his underachieving therefore perfectionist tendencies. If I could not be grateful for the incredible blessing of sanctification this is for him - he would certainly be quitting the violin! Or I would be quitting my senses, my very sanity.
One aspect of preparation is The Chart. The Chart requires that he play all three of his pieces (the required hoedown, waltz, free piece) 9 times each day and mark the appropriate boxes. So, even on Saturday when The Chart was new to us - by about repetition #4 there were tears, doom and gloom, and (sorry to say) some very stern frustrated lecturing involved. (read: yelling, empty threatening. I didn't say the sanctification has been limited to him!) I am pleased to say that our meetings with The Chart have gone relatively smoothly since the first go-round. Granted we are more in the, do what we have to to survive and get through it without having to go right to bed mode. Tonight's session involved the last five repetitions of the hoedown morphed into an all-out jam session with Dad on guitar, Mom on mandolin, G on violin playing straight through five times.
When we finally made it through all the songs, I leaned toward G (having on my mind to drive him right out for ice cream for making it through Day 4 with The Chart) and said, "Maybe we should go for treat." His response, "I don't have much of a sweet tooth Mom, but I have sweet eyes. Can I stay up and watch American Idol?"
4.15.2007
Underachievers Anon
I bought a book the other day in the hope that it would help me understand my son, and I met myself.
I think that it was last year at this time when I stood in my kitchen one morning and was hit with the following epiphany: It was not going to be possible to do all the things I want to do in this stage of life the way I want to do them. This was my list:
1. Keep house clean.
2. Feed husband and family well (meaning making good, healthy meals regularly)
3. Keep self fit
4. Spend time with kids in activities both educational and extremely exciting.
5. Be good friend to all friends.
Not a smidge unreasonable, right?
At that time we were eating out more than I can admit and still post this with any shred of dignity. The house was so dusty I had to sit down on the sofa quite gingerly so as not to aggravate my allergies. I was letting the daughter watch more TV than I would allow myself to watch - but I was exercising every day and lifting weights and strength training and feeling great. Everything else was a mess.
The cycle reversed as the home situation became impossible to ignore any longer. I stopped exercising and we all ate better, the house was not any better but I spent time with daughter (after the 2 weeks of TV withdrawal symptoms she experienced).
And so I have cycled through and around in any variation of some things ignored completely, some things done well, and a constant nagging sense that I was not measuring up to what I should be able to do as a mother with a daughter in preschool two mornings a week and a son in school full time and no other gainful employment.
Simultaneously, I have been in the midst of a long (years long) decision process as related to G's educational future. (Well, for next year at least) I have done countless hours of research about homeschooling and curriculum. I have talked to elementary teachers that I know and trust. I have talked to G's teacher that he has had for two years now. The husband and I have discussed it at long, long length. I have bored many friends talking through my thoughts aloud. I have been at a long standstill lately, so fearful of moving forward and deciding anything final.
I wandered through the bookstore on Friday, children both at school, and I had another epiphany of sorts. I was having difficulty moving forward with this decision because I don't really know my son that well. I don't understand him, his mind, the way he learns - him related to education well enough to take on doing it myself.
There have been these fragments of realization throughout Kindergarten and 1st grade - he struggles with some aspects of dyslexia. Although he has catapulted into the world of readers at this point, he definitely has some phoenetic processing difficulties. Rhymes and sounds of words do not process in his head the way they should. He does not remember words of songs easily - rhyming endings do not prompt him as to the next line coming. He has difficulty organizing details and information. These things, in a certain form of direction or to-do lists, overwhelm him into inaction and frustration as indicated by his backpack stuffed full of crumpled papers, his desk stuffed full of papers, his mind stuffed full of snippets of information.
His parent teacher conferences are like time warps for me. I sit and as his teacher begins to trace her finger through his marks, through his math work and writing journal; I am a child again. I remember the same words, repeated about me year after year, average grade after average grade. "Jessica is such a bright girl, her grades and effort are not what they should be considering her abilities. She is often calling out in class, talking to the students around her and distracting her classmates."
I feel small as I hear my son described this same way. I feel the helpless shame all coming back. I want to do better for him. I know how it feels to feel as if speaking out or talking to friends nearby is absolutely impossible to resist. I know how changing the teacher's or parent's perception seems so impossible that applying myself to the daily busy work feels useless in light of a larger, looming, unattainable goal of approval. Making the other students laugh is easy, immediate, feeds a desire for acceptance, makes him feel better about himself. I understand it. I understand him, in part.
I am out of time in the bookstore and as I hurry out a book catches my eye.
The Unmotivated Child
Willing myself to buy it, despite what I could save buying it from Amazon, I am already reading it in line.
So, he's an underachiever. He knows that he is capable of the work, but sees no reason to perform well through the daily desk work. He doesn't view his work as a reflection of his capabilites, doesn't want to be judged for what he produces, and therefore avoids truly investing in anything that could be subject to scrutiny (read: criticism). He is insecure of his position among his peers and seeks to please them primarily, driven by their acceptance and approval to a better self-image. Education does not factor into his survival mechanisms at all. He is driven by his peers. Learning is inadvertant, accidental, something he tolerates because of the socializing opportunities he is afforded. Oh, he does enough to get things done, avoid punishment, or earn extra play time - but doing anything to show what he is capable of is not considered. He doesn't care that each little paper adds up to a picture of him as a student.
But, what I really learn is that I am an underachiever. I have always had an inkling that this was the case; but back to my list. I wanted to do everything perfectly, or it wasn't worth doing. How can I make this huge decision to homeschool my underachieving son - when I am my own mess of underachievement? How can I risk epic failure with something so important? I was only a senior seminar from finishing my MEd and still doubt my competence to spend a year teaching my son 2nd grade? Do I have a shred of self-confidence?
I know that doing parts of my list, imperfectly, is a worthwhile venture. It is the point. Parenting imperfectly is still worth doing despite the days that feel like epic disasters. It is the point. G is a big picture, an entire life that I get to be a big part of for a time. The real question is, fear of failure or imperfection aside, what are the details worth persisting through with him? What is the point?
I think that it was last year at this time when I stood in my kitchen one morning and was hit with the following epiphany: It was not going to be possible to do all the things I want to do in this stage of life the way I want to do them. This was my list:
1. Keep house clean.
2. Feed husband and family well (meaning making good, healthy meals regularly)
3. Keep self fit
4. Spend time with kids in activities both educational and extremely exciting.
5. Be good friend to all friends.
Not a smidge unreasonable, right?
At that time we were eating out more than I can admit and still post this with any shred of dignity. The house was so dusty I had to sit down on the sofa quite gingerly so as not to aggravate my allergies. I was letting the daughter watch more TV than I would allow myself to watch - but I was exercising every day and lifting weights and strength training and feeling great. Everything else was a mess.
The cycle reversed as the home situation became impossible to ignore any longer. I stopped exercising and we all ate better, the house was not any better but I spent time with daughter (after the 2 weeks of TV withdrawal symptoms she experienced).
And so I have cycled through and around in any variation of some things ignored completely, some things done well, and a constant nagging sense that I was not measuring up to what I should be able to do as a mother with a daughter in preschool two mornings a week and a son in school full time and no other gainful employment.
Simultaneously, I have been in the midst of a long (years long) decision process as related to G's educational future. (Well, for next year at least) I have done countless hours of research about homeschooling and curriculum. I have talked to elementary teachers that I know and trust. I have talked to G's teacher that he has had for two years now. The husband and I have discussed it at long, long length. I have bored many friends talking through my thoughts aloud. I have been at a long standstill lately, so fearful of moving forward and deciding anything final.
I wandered through the bookstore on Friday, children both at school, and I had another epiphany of sorts. I was having difficulty moving forward with this decision because I don't really know my son that well. I don't understand him, his mind, the way he learns - him related to education well enough to take on doing it myself.
There have been these fragments of realization throughout Kindergarten and 1st grade - he struggles with some aspects of dyslexia. Although he has catapulted into the world of readers at this point, he definitely has some phoenetic processing difficulties. Rhymes and sounds of words do not process in his head the way they should. He does not remember words of songs easily - rhyming endings do not prompt him as to the next line coming. He has difficulty organizing details and information. These things, in a certain form of direction or to-do lists, overwhelm him into inaction and frustration as indicated by his backpack stuffed full of crumpled papers, his desk stuffed full of papers, his mind stuffed full of snippets of information.
His parent teacher conferences are like time warps for me. I sit and as his teacher begins to trace her finger through his marks, through his math work and writing journal; I am a child again. I remember the same words, repeated about me year after year, average grade after average grade. "Jessica is such a bright girl, her grades and effort are not what they should be considering her abilities. She is often calling out in class, talking to the students around her and distracting her classmates."
I feel small as I hear my son described this same way. I feel the helpless shame all coming back. I want to do better for him. I know how it feels to feel as if speaking out or talking to friends nearby is absolutely impossible to resist. I know how changing the teacher's or parent's perception seems so impossible that applying myself to the daily busy work feels useless in light of a larger, looming, unattainable goal of approval. Making the other students laugh is easy, immediate, feeds a desire for acceptance, makes him feel better about himself. I understand it. I understand him, in part.
I am out of time in the bookstore and as I hurry out a book catches my eye.
The Unmotivated Child
Willing myself to buy it, despite what I could save buying it from Amazon, I am already reading it in line.
So, he's an underachiever. He knows that he is capable of the work, but sees no reason to perform well through the daily desk work. He doesn't view his work as a reflection of his capabilites, doesn't want to be judged for what he produces, and therefore avoids truly investing in anything that could be subject to scrutiny (read: criticism). He is insecure of his position among his peers and seeks to please them primarily, driven by their acceptance and approval to a better self-image. Education does not factor into his survival mechanisms at all. He is driven by his peers. Learning is inadvertant, accidental, something he tolerates because of the socializing opportunities he is afforded. Oh, he does enough to get things done, avoid punishment, or earn extra play time - but doing anything to show what he is capable of is not considered. He doesn't care that each little paper adds up to a picture of him as a student.
But, what I really learn is that I am an underachiever. I have always had an inkling that this was the case; but back to my list. I wanted to do everything perfectly, or it wasn't worth doing. How can I make this huge decision to homeschool my underachieving son - when I am my own mess of underachievement? How can I risk epic failure with something so important? I was only a senior seminar from finishing my MEd and still doubt my competence to spend a year teaching my son 2nd grade? Do I have a shred of self-confidence?
I know that doing parts of my list, imperfectly, is a worthwhile venture. It is the point. Parenting imperfectly is still worth doing despite the days that feel like epic disasters. It is the point. G is a big picture, an entire life that I get to be a big part of for a time. The real question is, fear of failure or imperfection aside, what are the details worth persisting through with him? What is the point?
4.06.2007
Eggs!
4.01.2007
Dinner, Palm Sunday
The DH (darling husband) got a surprise email from an old high school friend who he last saw nearly 12 years ago. Being the gregarious, outgoing fellow he is - he invited this old friend, his wife, and their 2 young children for dinner. My only restriction, the wife doesn't like Mexican cuisine.
Menu for the evening to follow - capped off by (thanks to the spring-signifying drop in price of a half-flat (6 pints) of strawberries) mounds of sliced strawberries tossed with a little turbinado sugar and grated lemon peel on brown sugar shortcakes and whipped cream. (Just a little dollop the DH whipped by hand. Did you know it's faster to whip cream by hand than with a mixer?)
It was a very nice evening, catching up all those years. The back and forth stories (we have been through an unbelievable amount together in the last 12 years!) that everyone has told to others so many times. The awkward moment where DH annouces how he despises Disneyland. (that always manages to offend someone here in SoCal) Our bonding moment occurring near the end. Alice was sitting near their son, Brandon, watching Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang - and we noticed they were holding hands. I commented to her about it and she replied, "Because I yuv Him!"
Grilled Chicken, Red Onion, & Mint Kebabs
Greek Salad
Flatbread (from Trader Joe's) brushed with olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt, warmed in the oven
Gigantic deep purple grapes
Strawberry Shortcakes with Brown Sugar Biscuits (this is the recipe I referred to, but modified quite a bit. Omitted white chocolate stuff, mint from the strawberries, no white sugar - only 2T of turbinado. Made the shortcakes as is.)
a white wine
Menu for the evening to follow - capped off by (thanks to the spring-signifying drop in price of a half-flat (6 pints) of strawberries) mounds of sliced strawberries tossed with a little turbinado sugar and grated lemon peel on brown sugar shortcakes and whipped cream. (Just a little dollop the DH whipped by hand. Did you know it's faster to whip cream by hand than with a mixer?)
It was a very nice evening, catching up all those years. The back and forth stories (we have been through an unbelievable amount together in the last 12 years!) that everyone has told to others so many times. The awkward moment where DH annouces how he despises Disneyland. (that always manages to offend someone here in SoCal) Our bonding moment occurring near the end. Alice was sitting near their son, Brandon, watching Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang - and we noticed they were holding hands. I commented to her about it and she replied, "Because I yuv Him!"
Grilled Chicken, Red Onion, & Mint Kebabs
Greek Salad
Flatbread (from Trader Joe's) brushed with olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt, warmed in the oven
Gigantic deep purple grapes
Strawberry Shortcakes with Brown Sugar Biscuits (this is the recipe I referred to, but modified quite a bit. Omitted white chocolate stuff, mint from the strawberries, no white sugar - only 2T of turbinado. Made the shortcakes as is.)
a white wine
3.25.2007
Another Birthday
This morning I scrutinized my face in the mirror. I bent as closely as possible and, holding my breath to keep from masking the examination in fog, looked at my skin. It was only last August when I observed my face closely like this and saw no lines or wrinkles or anything to betray that I was no longer in my late, late 20's. (Ok, early 30's.)The second half of 2006 and first fourth of 2007 have been a veritable onslaught of death among family and friends, serious sickness among family and friends, house burning down, thousands of miles of travel in two or three days, exhaustion as I parent my strong-willed son with his tempest of an emotional life and my 3 year old daughter who simply must be a princess or pretty at all moments. I am a wife and housekeeper here. A daughter, sister, friend, neighbor on two coasts. I don't say these things for sympathy - simply stating the way my life is set, for now. The chance to be these things, to people I not only love, but like, is a privilege that brings me immense joy in every waking moment.
All these people to care about have taken their toll this year. The moments of overwhelming worry and concern. The nights lying awake, so close to or so far from hurting friends or family. As I looked at my face, I saw them very clearly. The fine lines, permanently showing and stretching a path down from my eyes. It is almost too much joy and sadness to contain inside my person. How can there be anymore years? I suppose becoming more forgetful helps with mental space. By next year perhaps I will have forgotten last year. I already have forgotten what I had for breakfast, this morning. So, there's hope on that front.
I am glad, today, that I was born and that I know all of you and that we have all been in this together. I know we won't mind it in each other, as we all grow old.
It also struck me that my parents are not that much older than me. That was a weird feeling.
All these people to care about have taken their toll this year. The moments of overwhelming worry and concern. The nights lying awake, so close to or so far from hurting friends or family. As I looked at my face, I saw them very clearly. The fine lines, permanently showing and stretching a path down from my eyes. It is almost too much joy and sadness to contain inside my person. How can there be anymore years? I suppose becoming more forgetful helps with mental space. By next year perhaps I will have forgotten last year. I already have forgotten what I had for breakfast, this morning. So, there's hope on that front.
I am glad, today, that I was born and that I know all of you and that we have all been in this together. I know we won't mind it in each other, as we all grow old.
It also struck me that my parents are not that much older than me. That was a weird feeling.
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